


brad/nate - huddling for warmth

by romanticalgirl



Series: December Ficlets 2010 [10]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 12-14-10</p>
    </blockquote>





	brad/nate - huddling for warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 12-14-10

The desert is cold at night. It’s pretty basic knowledge, which is probably why the fucking Corps isn’t prepared for it at all. The Humvees are equipped with fuck-all for the cold, but that’s to be expected, since they’re equipped with fuck-all for everything. 

They’re on recon, spread out in the mountains on the border of where they’re not supposed to be, and there’s snow in the gullies between the rocks. They’re wearing MOPP suits again, desert to match the mountains they’re now in. They’re in small teams now, spread out in pairs across the mountainside. They’re radio silent, but Brad knows where Ray and Walt are, where Rudy and Christenson are hunkered down. He can see the terrain on the map in his head, knows their hot spots and weak points. He taps the edge of the folded paper against his thigh, not making a sound.

Nate moves closer, handing Brad the night goggles. They’re low on batteries and the faint glow of small fires makes the green edges flare bright when he lifts them to his eyes. He scans the area then lowers the goggles, sighing under his breath. Nate nods and leans against the rock behind them. They’re looking at a long night of nothing, the insurgents below not about to move from their campfires into the new dusting of snow that’s falling around them.

It’s the hot and cold mix that pisses Brad off, the sweat that beads on his neck and upper lip and pools in the hollows of his throat and shoulders, the back of his knees in his MOPP suit warring with the freezing cold that buffets his face and hands. He has fingerless gloves that absolutely fail to keep anything important warm and he’s fairly certain that he’s got snow in his eyelashes.

Neither of them say anything as they shift in their positions, careful to keep from dislodging any of the pebbles that peek out through the falling snow. Nate’s boot rests against Brad’s, knees touching, fabric on fabric but careful not to make a sound. Nate has the goggles on his lap along with the silent radio and Brad has his weapon in his hands, his trigger finger tucked in off the actual trigger to keep his skin from sticking to the metal. 

Nate shivers slightly and blinks, snow falling onto his cheeks. Brad fights the urge to wipe the wetness away, contenting himself with the firm press of his shoulder on Nate’s and the illusion of heat it brings.


End file.
